


Happy Birthday

by Buttsuoka_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Cheesy, Fluff, Homecoming, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/pseuds/Buttsuoka_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Birthday fic for NuttersandAcorn:</b>
</p>
<p>All Lestrade wanted was John. John, who was in Afghanistan and not due home for another seven months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyatsuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyatsuma/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Nutty!  
> This is probably incredibly cheesy but whatever. I love cheesy, I _lap up_ cheesy. I can't help it.

Lestrade woke up to another damp, cold morning. It was the sort of morning that made his bones ache and his feet turn into blocks of ice at the end of the bed. He stretched, snuggled deeper under the blanket, and tucked his feet into the warm spot under his legs. His phone alarm rung out from under the pillow before he had the chance to get comfy.

There was no point in staying in bed any longer anyway. Lestrade yawned and rolled over, switched off the alarm and squinted at the screen. And then his eye caught the date in the corner: November 8th.

Oh yeah. Today was his birthday.

Resisting the urge to crawl back into the warmth of his blankets and just sleep the day away, Lestrade reluctantly slipped out of bed. He shivered when his feet landed on the cold floor and quickly sought out a pair of slippers. Lestrade knows exactly how the day will go; he'll get dressed, have coffee, drive to work. He'll receive a text from his brother wishing him a happy birthday and, at a push, Sally will remember too. He'll go home, find post from his kids, and probably go to bed.

Same day, different year.

All Lestrade wanted was John. John, who was in Afghanistan and not due home for another seven months. Before getting dressed, Lestrade padded over to the chest of drawers and, with a sad smile, picked up the photo-frame standing proud on the mahogany surface. It was of him and John at a colleague's wedding. John was dressed in a midnight blue suit and Lestrade in a deep grey pinstripe, and they were on the dancefloor all smiles and giggles and tipsy almost-falls. Bless the person who had the photo developed and framed.

Christ but he missed John something awful. You always hear stories about war heroes, how their loved ones have to live every day in fear of receiving _that_ phonecall; the one that will flip their world upside down and upset every balance they've known.

It's a thought that always lingered at the back of Lestrade's mind. He didn't like thinking about it but... No. He couldn't do this to himself, not on today of all days. He gazed at the photo for few moments more before deciding, bitterly, that telekinesis wouldn't bring his love to him. Somehow, the morning seemed to grow colder.

About twenty minutes later his phone buzzed.

_New Message: Sherlock Holmes  
    Mycroft has informed me it's your birthday._

Lestrade didn't bother texting back, concentrating instead on finishing his toast and coffee. Another buzz distracted him.

_New Message: Sherlock Holmes  
     Many happy returns._

That made him smile; even Sherlock was capable of celebrating birthdays. As mundane in his eyes as they were. Maybe he had a point there, Lestrade thought, scalding the back of his throat with a particularly large gulp of coffee. Standing up, he reached for his coat and pulled it on, sparing a glance around his kitchen. It was clean for once - at least he could relax tonight. Pocketing his phone and keys and checking that his buttons were actually done up properly, Lestrade left for work.

It's not that he had a heavy heart or any of that nonsense. He just wanted the one gift he couldn't have.

\--

"Happy Birthday, Sir." Sally poked her head around the corner of the canteen door and smiled, two cups of steaming tea in hand. She rounded the corner and brought one of the cups over to his table. "How young are you this year, then?"

"Twenty-one." Lestrade was grateful for the tea and accepted with with a smile.

"Twenty-one plus… Fifty?" Sally joked. 

"Oi, I think you'd rather keep your job, yeah?" Lestrade shook his head but laughed all the same. He was a bit surprised about the chit-chat and jokes. It wasn't an everyday occurrence with Sally. "Forty-nine."

"And still dashing as ever."

They clinked their cups together and drank in silence, nodding to the occasional officer or secretary meandering about. It was still dull outside but the rain had subsided somewhat, and the sky was a murky grey. The fluorescent lighting and bland office colours didn't do much to deflect the mood. 

"Any plans for tonight, then?" Sally asked, dipping a Jaffa Cake into her tea. She pulled a face when it came up far too soggy. 

Lestrade shrugged. "Take-away and beer for one, I suppose."

He could have sworn that Sally was smirking. He arched an eyebrow and watched her mouth softening again. "I'm sure it won't be terrible."

"Yeah," Lestrade snorted. "Top Gear re-runs and an early night. Can't wait." 

\--

Something was up with _everyone_ at The Yard; whispers, giggles, and hushes whenever Lestrade walked by. He was considering shouting at them to get back to work but decided against it, instead retreating to his office and starting on some overdue paperwork. He didn't want to know what the running joke of the week was. Last week, it was about Dimmock's poor choice in women. The week before that was about Anderson having been spotted in a very questionable bar. Lestrade wondered incessantly if he was running a gossip factory.

A knock on his office door jolted him out of his work. Looking up to see Sherlock stepping inside, Lestrade frowned. 

"Come with me." Sherlock held open the door and gestured out.

"Can I ask why?" Lestrade stood up anyway. "Or where I'm going?"

"No. Come on, there's a car outside. Call it a trip on behalf of Mycroft."

"Mycroft? Now I'm scared." Knowing better than to argue with him, Lestrade gathered up his papers and stacked them up in the corner of his desk. "I'm technically not allowed to leave without telling-"

"It's all covered, Lestrade. Now come on, we're going to be late."

"Late for what?" Lestrade followed Sherlock out the door and into the lifts. 

"You'll see."

There wasn't any point in trying to pull more information out of him. So Lestrade followed quietly.

\--

"The airport?" 

"Yes." Sherlock's thumbs skittered over his phone's keyboard fast. He hadn't said a word the entire journey, and the only indication he was actually aware of his own existence was when he glanced up and out the window. Eventually the car came to a stop and they got out.

"Please tell me I'm not being kidnapped." Lestrade muttered, following Sherlock dumbly through throngs of people and suitcases into the arrivals area. Sherlock snorted.

"Hardly." They pushed through the crowd until they reached the railing. "It won't be long now."

"Until what?"

Sherlock smiled a wide, genuine smile; the first real emotion to have crossed his face that day. "Your gift."

"...Gift?" Lestrade's eyes widened and realisation dawned on him - birthday, taken out of work, airport... Waiting on an arrival... "No way. What..."

The DI trailed off when the arrival doors slid apart and a handful of people walked through. 

Then some more.

And some more. Until...

"Happy Birthday, Lestrade." Sherlock grinned at his expression when a man, short and blonde and dressed in army fatigues walked through. 

John Watson.

Lestrade was shocked into silence, unable to say or do anything for a full five seconds. And then he made a noise that was a cross between a gasp and a deep breath. The next few moments were a blur of colours and noises of annoyance because Lestrade was pushing through the crowd, desperate to get to John. He wasn't sure who smiled first, who reached out to whom first, but suddenly there were arms around him and his arms were around John, and there was a soft albeit shaky puff of air next to his ear.

"John-"

"Greg-"

"How?" Lestrade wanted to ask him more, ask him how the hell he managed to get time off, who the hell organised this, but he couldn't. Lips were upon his before he had the chance to utter another sound, warm hands with calloused fingers cupping his face.

In the background there was a short round of applause as they pulled back. John's eyes were wet and Greg's, well, Greg had been blindly crying since he'd first laid eyes on John. 

"It was all Sherlock." John whispered. "He said he was getting sick of your pining." They laughed and pulled apart, hands lingering together. Sherlock clearing his throat pulled them out of their reverie.

"You!" Lestrade rounded on him. "Mycroft had absolutely nothing to do with this, did he?"

The detective rolled his eyes. Of _course_ he wouldn't admit to it. "Are you two going to stand there all day or are we actually going to leave?"

"Lovely to see you too, Sherlock." John grinned. "But yes. I'm going to take my fiancé home and give him the birthday he deserves. Right Greg?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to comment but he was silenced, because John's words processed through his mind. 

"Fiancé?!"

"Oh yeah. Almost forgot." John dropped to one knee right in the middle of the airport. "Gregory Lestrade, will you marry me?"


End file.
